Fascinating, really
by BorntoBeChosen
Summary: "Oi, you well-dressed bastard." Greg Lestrade looked up at the British Government with amusement and a cheeky grin that sent Mycroft into a new state of mind.
1. Chapter 1

"What a…lovely home you've come by, brother dear." Mycroft stated as he picked up a dirty mug that had once held what he had assumed to be tea? Perhaps. He held the mug at arm's length, assuming that the state of the mug more than likely described the odor that permeated from the fermented tea. Sherlock barely hinted at the knowledge of the presence of his brother, decidedly transfixed onto the screen of his laptop of which he was reading at an almost inhuman speed. Mycroft grunted and gave a look of disdain at being ignored especially in the garbage heap his brother called home, he stepped forward and cleared a chair that sat opposite of Sherlock.

Mycroft meant to have with a chat with his brother, even if that meant having to sit in the middle of his mind and filth.

"You've gained two pounds since the last time you came to my flat," Sherlock stated without looking up, "diet not adhering to your lust for sweets again?" Mycroft clicked his tongue in annoyance, his hand on the handle of his umbrella turning a bone white while his other hand began tapping out a nonsensical rhythm on the armrest of the chair.

"Such observations are so petty, brother, perhaps you'd like to answer as to why you've made over seven fake identification cards in the past week?" Mycroft had finally spat out his reason for coming, a chastising visit that Mummy Holmes had threatened him to give his brother. Sherlock still hadn't looked up from his laptop, egging on Mycroft's annoyance even more, he could practically see the vein in his brother's neck begin to pop.

"Honestly, you're a thirty year old man with a mind that could make so many advances in the generation and yet, you choose to spend your time either on narcotics or loitering around the Yard." Sherlock finally looked up, he still didn't say a word as he promptly shut his laptop then stood up to make himself a cup of tea. Mycroft brought a hand up to his temple and began to gently rub the headache that had been plaguing him since he awoke this morning at three Am. He could distinctly hear the sound of someone exiting a cab outside but decided to think nothing of it, too many cabs in London as it is anyway.

"Speaking of The Yard, Detective Inspector Lestrade will be with us shortly." Sherlock said as he set the kettle on the stove top, quickly grabbing another chipped tea cup from the cupboard. A disheveled, nearly gray man burst through the front door at that exact moment, one look into his eye and one could deduce that he was thoroughly annoyed. Mycroft smirked, at least he wasn't the only one having a row today.

"Alright you bastard, give it up." And that was the moment Mycroft's smirk faded into a thin line, which in turn told Sherlock that he was thinking rather hard.  
"Oh Lestrade, how wonderful to see you too." Sherlock smiled at the copper, flashing him a cheery grin knowing fully well how it would make Lestrade get into an even worse state. Mycroft however was still in thought, thoughts that directly related to the new addition to the room. Mycroft decided to play the game of deductions with himself because something about the detective inspector in front of him screamed for Mycroft's undivided attention.

'Noting to the wrinkled and cheap suit he has on, he is most likely a man with little free time to care about the state of his dress but just enough time to adhere to a code of professionalism which is where the suit comes in. The suits are wrinkled and cheap and new, yes new, he's just been promoted which is why he even put into the whole suit process. His hair is slightly graying but he's still a deep brunette, estimated amount of time until he's entirely gray? About two to three years, possibly only a year with Sherlock coming into the picture. The state of his wedding ring is the only neatly kept thing about him, which in turn means that his marriage is going quite well, however the graying in his hair would contend against that. Being a man with little to no free time would leave almost no time to a wife, who is in fact an on call nurse at one of the busiest hospitals in all of England, approximately by the state of the lines on the detectives face which remain from staying up to wake up or wait for his wife before leaving for the yard at more than likely three in the morning. In other words, the detective is in a soon to be failing marriage with his new promotion and newfound acquaintanceship with Sherlock, who no doubt would take all of the Detective Inspectors time. Free and busy. He won't be the one to cheat, judging by his stance he's a classic loyal husband, his wife however is a woman of an expectant amount of attention. She will be the one to cheat and leave, no doubt. Estimated amount of time before Lestrade's soon to be divorce: Approximately five to ten years. He'll hang onto it until it dies in his arms and blows up in his face. Conclusion: Detective Inspector Lestrade is a humble and loyal man with a soon to be failing marriage and a graying head to boot.' Mycroft thought while staring at the copper without realizing his impropriety, Sherlock had already guessed everything Mycroft had deduced about Lestrade. He was, however, curious about the sudden flush of Mycroft's cheeks, dilation of pupils and heightened breath, attraction clearly across his brother's eyes. Sherlock made an internal grunt at his disgust for his brother's sudden attraction but made no inclination that he cared.

"I wouldn't say it's wonderful to see me right now, Holmes, you know why I'm here." Lestrade said with his still prevalent annoyance, eying Sherlock and trying to ignore the way he wanted to punch him straight in the face. Sherlock's eyes glinted in sudden amusement, making Lestrade annoyed had become a new game of his and he certainly did play it often.

"Oh no, I'm afraid I don't know why you're here, care to elaborate for me?" Sherlock's words came out like molasses, coating the conversation in thick goo that Lestrade wasn't about to set foot into.

Mycroft sat listening to their conversation while staring at the Detective Inspector with great interest. Mycroft would never admit it, but he was deeply interested and possibly transfixed on the strange man before him.  
"Just give me back my damn I.D., Holmes! I'm not playing games with you today, I have a case to be at in a half hour and it's half way across London." Lestrade breathed out, rubbing his temples just as Mycroft had done not even five minutes ago. Sherlock snorted with a boyish air and ran his hand through his hair, which needed a good cutting (or so Mycroft contested with him on many occasions.)  
"Oh, you want your Identification Card? Why didn't you just say so? I'm not a mind reader, Detective."  
"Sometimes, I'm doubtful, Holmes." Sherlock smirked at the comment, Mycroft, who was quite tired of being ignored, coughed exaggeratedly. Lestrade's eyes suddenly flashed to the dignified man sitting in one of Sherlock's chairs, looking incredibly out of place in the cluttered apartment.

"Holmes, who's the suit? Did you get yourself in another jam? You know I can't get all of the Yard to come save you every single time you decide to piss off a crazed politician."

"Mycroft Holmes, sir, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance." Lestrade's eyes buggered out of their sockets, his mind fishing for answers as to who this man was that was shaking his hand right now.

"Holmes, as in-"

"Yes, Sherlock and I are related, brothers to be precise. Disgusting circumstances, I assure you." Mycroft glared at Sherlock, who had walked out of the room to go do God knows what. Lestrade's eyes were now the size of dinner plates, he could feel his mouth run dry at the idea of two Holmes.

"Christ, there's more of you lot? Listen, one Holmes is enough to age me but if I have to deal with two I might just jump off the roof of the Yard."

"I assure you, Detective, my brother and I are fortunately different in almost every way." Mycroft was sweating lightly, for reasons he wasn't too sure of and probably didn't want to extrapolate. Mycroft could feel the dilation of his pupils, the quickness of his breathing and the ever-growing knot balling up in his stomach. Although Mycroft was no expert in the matter, he could tell the warning signs of physical attraction with ease.

Blissfully unaware of the unsettling feeling beginning in the stomach of the only civil Holmes Lestrade had ever met, he smiled warmly and sat down in the opposite seat of Mycroft. He'd get his damn Identification Card if it took him all day, Holmes didn't have one over him.

"So Mr. Holmes, what brings you to your bastard of a brothers crack den?" Lestrade joked, thumbing the fabric of the armchair absently. Mycroft let out a puff of air from his nose and smiled, he stared into the eyes of the Detective for any motives however. He didn't just tell anyone his plans without first understanding their want with it, but judging by the relaxed expression and sitting position, Lestrade was just making conversation.

"Please, call me Mycroft, Detective Inspector. I'm here for a similar predicament that my brother has put me in, he's made over seven fake Identification cards within the past week. And I do in fact agree with your crack den comment, absolutely dreadful living conditions he's put himself in, I don't know how he can live here." Mycroft said, one hand firmly sliding on the handle of his umbrella, trying not to let his uncomfortable feelings show.

"Call me Greg, please, I'm not used to the whole Detective Inspector title yet." Lestrade smirked, he was obviously proud of what he's accomplished but he wasn't a man to let that get him in over his head.

"I think that I shall have to bring my formality into context when I tell you that I must simply call you Gregory to be able to put up with myself." Mycroft's eyes were now completely smitten by the man before him, he couldn't look away from him if he tried. Suddenly, Sherlock emerged from where ever the Hell he'd gone to with Greg's wallet in hand and all seven of his faked identification cards. Sherlock's eyes instantly locked onto Mycroft and what had entered his mind as only a theory had enhanced itself to certain knowledge. Sherlock was instantly amused, his eyes brightening and a sharp smile graced his features, his brother would never hear the end of this observation.

"Oh Lestrade, here you are, in perfect condition as always." Sherlock handed Greg his wallet and looking at Mycroft's eyes as they followed Greg's every movements.

"Good, didn't have to tackle you or lock you up this time." Greg joked and looked up at Sherlock, completely oblivious to the obvious eyes that tracked him, studying him.

"My dear brother, you seem to be staring at something with evil intent." Sherlock's eyes glinted and he smirked with a knowing evil that only he could make, Mycroft took his eyes off of Lestrade and glared with a terrible anger at Sherlock.

"Just deciding when I should call someone in to change this horrible wallpaper, believe me, it will be soon if I can help it." Mycroft knew Sherlock knew what his body was betraying him with, his anger was pooling inside him with each second Sherlock gave him that smile.

"Oh yes, the wallpaper, of course." Sherlock said skeptically, Lestrade had a confused look on his face but wasn't looking too far into the brother's conversation.

"Well, best be scooting, I'm sure I'll see you soon Holmes. Pleasure to meet you, Mycroft, now if you'll excuse me." And just like that, the attractive man that had been clouding Mycroft's mind for the past fifteen minutes, left just as abruptly as he came.

"Attraction, dear brother, does not suit you."

"Children are meant to be seen and not heard, Sherlock." Mycroft's headache was brought back with a vengeance, he promptly stood up, dusted himself off and made his way towards the door.

"Do you not want these then? Because I will happily keep them." Sherlock said, waving the fake identification cards like a fan on himself, Mycroft grudgingly walked swiftly towards his brother. Taking the cards with an angry hand, Mycroft then again turned toward the door.

"Obviously, you've already deduced Lestrade, but there's something you'll have to do deep research to find out. He's far more interesting than he lets on, I've learned from experience, don't let his little normality fool you. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is anything but ordinary." Sherlock told his brother, suddenly taking this moment to become serious and address something to his brother.

"You almost sound as if you care, brother." Mycroft said, facing the hallway not daring to turn around to face his brother.

"Maybe this is one of the few times I actually do, Mycroft." And with that, Mycroft walked swiftly out of the ghastly apartment while pulling out his phone. He dialed the only number that he ever memorized while still walking out of the building, his umbrella held firmly in his hand for fear that he could get jumped in this hell hole.

"Yes Sir?" A woman's voice came from the phone, soft and delicate as usual, she sounded a bit annoyed at suddenly not being able to text.

"Anthea, bring the car around."

"Yes sir, it's already outside."

"Good and Anthea, get me everything you can on a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"Already started sir, it'll be on your desk by this morning."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been denied entry into yet another case, even though he could solve it as soon as he could tell exactly who had done it and where if he could have just seen the body. But before he could have even made it to the morgue, Anderson had busted him and pulled him into Lestrade's office yet again. Lestrade had given him a police escort back to his flat just to make sure he was home and now there was a police car parked outside of the building to make sure he didn't leave for at least the night.

Now, Sherlock was entirely too bored and in need of a distraction to calm all of his many thoughts that constantly slammed against his skull like cannon balls into ships. If Lestrade wouldn't let his mind run from him in the easiest sense, well then it was time for a less than orthodox distraction, one that he didn't try to turn to easily.

Sherlock went into his small bedroom in his flat, he undressed with a lazy limpness to his movements, his mind obviously in another place but still completely aware of exactly what he was doing. Soon Sherlock left himself clad only in a pair of his boxer shorts, he sat down into his bed and crawled all the way up until his back was against the headboard. His long, bony hands reached out towards his belt he'd left on the bed, he set it beside his thigh then turned to reach into his bedside table where he promptly opened it then opened the faux backboard of it to reveal a small bag of white powder, a needle, a spoon and a lighter.

After Lestrade had given him his second drug bust, he'd learn to hide things in the most creative of places, he had put this one together only a few weeks ago and was rather proud of it. Sherlock smirked at his accomplishment but then his face turned back to a blank slate again as he promptly took the belt and tightened it around his upper arm. Next was to put the powder and some water in the spoon and then to light the lighter underneath the spoon until the mixture turned into a boiled, white liquid in the spoon.

Sherlock reached for the needle and filled it with the narcotic and then soon enough the needle was in his arm, shooting the warm liquid into his veins. It didn't take long until he felt the effects of the drug in his system, his mind finally stopped racing like a jet and everything just seemed to be in slow motion. His sense were completely numb, he was simply rocking back and forth in his bed with a sleepy smile gracing his face, and his eyes had glazed over long ago.

Needle, long forgotten, was still stuck in his arm and somehow he had accidently twisted it so it was now making his arm bleed out a bit. He didn't even feel it, he didn't feel anything, and this was a distraction that stopped him from doing anything.

Which is why he didn't appreciate this one as much as others.

However this time, this time seemed different, something was wrong about this drug that he'd put into his system. He realized this with difficulty, but soon he looked down to understand that he had used the whole needles worth instead of half as he usually did. This wasn't alright, this wasn't alright at all, something was making his hands twitch and legs shake.

He was having an obvious overdose coming on, his high suddenly leaving him as he stood up abruptly from the bed. He needed to call someone, for once in his life, Sherlock needed to stop being independent and ask for help.

He shakily made his way out of the room, tripping over his own feet every now and then, hands clinging to the wall to keep himself level. His head, although not blasting with thoughts, was currently swirling and making him dizzy with each step. His breath was shallow and shaky, his skin was coated in a thin layer of sweat, and he looked like a corpse fresh out of the morgue.

Or at least, that's how Lestrade described him as he walked into the flat.

The Detective had decided to take the younger Holmes out for dinner that night, mostly to have a talk with him about why he couldn't let him into crime scenes and the morgue, but it was mostly just to get him something to eat. Lestrade didn't like how unnaturally thin the kid was, he knew he put off eating for days at a time for some reason. Something about how his body is just a vessel or some phrase that sounded like that…

Either way, Lestrade was now standing in front of an obviously high Holmes and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of him. Sherlock would probably never say it, but at that moment, he was incredibly happy the Detective was there.

"Help." Was the only word Sherlock could muster, his voice cracked and raspy, he fell against the wall he was clinging to and dropped his onto his knee. He distinctly heard footsteps running towards him and a faint smell of coffee as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness. Lestrade picked up Holmes's limp body with too much ease for his liking, his body caked in a cold sweat and goose bumps. Greg's instincts as a trained officer of New Scotland Yard kicked in as he sat Sherlock's body on the love seat of his flat and wasted no time in calling for an ambulance.

The minutes went on like hours as Lestrade waited for the ambulance to come, he didn't leave Sherlock's side for a minute, too afraid that he might die as soon as he left his sight. Lestrade noted the odd twitching in Sherlock's hands and legs, the needle still stuck in his arm and the saliva leaking from his mouth. Sherlock was an absolute mess and all Lestrade could do to help was call a damn ambulance that seemed to be taking its time through the streets of London. Greg was becoming more impatient as the minutes ticked by, he was shaking from the adrenaline infused with fear unknowingly as he tapped his heel against the wood floor.

Finally Greg heard the siren of the ambulance and a long breath that he didn't he was holding in burst from his nose like a rocket. Greg heard the men run up the stairs and soon enough they burst through the door with the stretcher and first aid kits.

They worked fluidly and quickly, placing a breathing mask on Sherlock and carefully removing the needle from his arm along with his belt. Sherlock didn't move or flinch once from the alien contact being administered to his body, this was the moment that Lestrade finally let himself panic a bit for the mortality of his friend. Lestrade started to breathe a little hurriedly as he followed the men down the stairs to the ambulance.

"Are you getting in with him, Inspector?" One of the men asked him, Lestrade took a second to finally let his mind come into play, then finally took a deep breath and nodded while entering the ambulance behind the stretcher.

'How did this bastard get past me again?' Lestrade thoughts flooded into his mind at the sudden recognition that he had a mind to be used. He was staring down at Sherlock's wax white body that was slowly breathing out in different spurts and flutters.

Sherlock looked dead already.

'I've surveyed that apartment over ten goddamn times, I've checked everywhere, so how the Hell did this happen? Why the Hell did this happen?' It took a moment before Lestrade finally got something that he'd been missing entirely this whole time. Lestrade has only caught Sherlock high four times, in each of those four instances, Sherlock was denied entry to a crime scene. Every single time Lestrade asked him why he'd done it to himself, Sherlock's answer was always something along the lines of being bored.

Lestrade finally understood.

Sherlock needed to solve these cases for himself, this was his fun and entertainment, which might have seemed odd to some but to Lestrade it made perfect sense. Sherlock didn't want to help with the crime scenes, Sherlock had to solve these cases for his own sanity to bear it, his mind needed to deduce. It needed to find answers and problem solve, it needed to be used to its full capacity or else Sherlock couldn't function.

Sherlock needed to solve cases to quiet his overactive brain.

And what happened when he couldn't solve these cases or make his deductions? He was left to the confines of his mind, constantly thinking and over analyzing with nothing to analyze, it probably drove him to madness. Then an icy feeling fell down Lestrade's back as a thought came into his mind, a thought that made his skin crawl and his gut to fall to the floor.

'I've been the one denying Sherlock access to these crime scenes and bodies, I've been the one to send him home to his quiet apartment, I've been confining his sanity to jail that was his mind. I'm the reason Sherlock could have died tonight.' The realization of the severity of this situation struck a terrible chord within Lestrade, he'd made it his oath to help people, to protect them. But here he was, the cause to someone else's pain.

Lestrade let out shaky breaths, his hands came up to cradle his head and he started to rub his temples to try to ease off his own thoughts. His eyes closed at the contact of his eyes, easing a little bit of stress out of his mind and getting Sherlock's white image out of his mind.

Greg thought back to the first time he ever met the deranged man lying on the stretcher, the ambulance rambled on in the background of Lestrades thoughts but seemed to only lull him into his thoughts deeper.

A crazed, dark figure came running into office one morning a good three months ago, chasing right after him was an angered Anderson of whom happened to be covered in hot coffee.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I presume." Huffed the dark figure before him, his height towering over Greg's desk, Lestrade only looked up with confusion as he sipped his morning coffee.

"Oh-uh, yeah, I'm him."

"Sir, I'm sorry to let him in here but he just ran straight by me like a maniac, I tried to stop him as you saw but he was too quick for me." Anderson's voice came from behind the tower-like man, he sounded out of breath and certainly frazzled.

"I have business with the Inspector." The man spoke up again, addressing both Lestrade and Anderson with a hint of annoyance in his baritone voice.

"Then you should've made an appointment at the desk, not ran all the way to him when he's damn break!" Anderson was past the boiling point, his voice picking up to the high pitched tone that just deepened Lestrade's headache he's has since he woke up this morning.

"Alright Phil, just leave him." The sooner Anderson left his office the better, he could deal with the weirdo in his office. Anderson angrily threw his arms up and walked swiftly out of the door to go complain somewhere else.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you're in here, Mister-?"

"I'm here to tell you why you're completely wrong about seven of the ten cases you've been working on for the past month." The man sat down in one of the seats facing Lestrade, he didn't fuss around the bush when discussing matters apparently. But something told Greg that this guy wasn't just a nutter, something was different about him, and this man was strange in every way possible. His facial features were just as long and lanky as his body, proportioning him out in such a way that made him seem almost ethereal. The gaunt look of his face said that he didn't eat much if at all and the dark circles under his eyes said he didn't have much sleep on top of it all. He looked like a right ass and from the state of how the conversation started, more than likely was. But for some reason, Greg just decided to let him continue.

"Oi, watch yourself mate, what gives you the authority to state that?" Lestrade said, almost choking on one of his donuts he'd gotten from the vending machine.

"Because I can tell you that the maid had to of been the culprit in the Hoover case, she was the only one within the house when the bathroom caught fire and killed Mr. Hoover. He and the maid were having an affair, obviously by the intimate setting of the murder and the traces of burnt flower petals in the room. As for the Ridendale case, if one had simply looked into the CCTV cameras from across the street at the car garage, it would've placed George Marker at the scene of the crime thus completely eradicating his well thought out alibi. The Cleveland case, ah, that was a rather interesting one, I'd had so much fun with it. Coffee, or more or less, coffee beans, were the initial give away with that case, I had to smell over 40 different kinds of an Arabica blend within a two day period. One of which was a specialty bought, caffeine free and vegan blend specially made at a café two streets away from the murder scene. One small detail you didn't give any mind to have been the exact cause to give me speculation as to who exactly was drinking such a thought out beverage within the Cleveland household. Certainly couldn't have been anyone in the house, everyone within the Cleveland house only drinks tea out of personal preference. So, who exactly could have brought in a coffee bean into the house? That's where James Whittacker comes in, he's the barista at this specialty café, who just so happens to be in love with Mr. Cleveland's daughter. Obviously, Mr. Cleveland being the high-end, auristocratic socialite that he is, well was, couldn't have his daughter married off to a barista from a café. In fact, he was stated as saying 'over his dead body', so sorry the boy actually took his words to heart and put cyanide in his morning cup of tea. He wasn't alone however, Cleveland's daughter was obviously the mastermind behind this, too bad for James Whittacker that she's already in America living in the lap of luxury with her five other lovers and her father's money. Now as for the other four cases, I'm sure you will find every answer in this file of which I've dumbed down for you." This man hit every nail on the head with a deafening blow, Lestrade couldn't help but stop eating with a donut hanging out of his mouth while listening to this man.

"Well, I'm finished here, Detective Inspector, expect me again soon when you've muddled up another crime." The dark, deranged figure stood up promptly and headed towards the door of Greg's office with a smug look upon his face.

"Oi, aren't I even worthy of a name, then?" Lestrade couldn't help himself from saying, he was perplexed and a little bit degraded by the fact that one man could completely over throw all of his thinking in one day.

He was a goddamn Detective Inspector for Christ's sake.

"No, not really, but I suppose if manners are in order, the name is Sherlock Holmes."

And now Gregory Lestrade was sitting beside Sherlock, a man who had unorthodoxly helped him crack over 50 cases in over seven months without even asking for compensation of any kind. A man that he denied just one entrance into a damn morgue for so that he could help him solve another case without Greg even asking and now this man was lying in an ambulance, close to death.

And Greg blamed himself for it all.

'If this bastard pulls through, he's getting every fucking clearance I can get him.' Greg told himself, then he had a thought about Sherlock's brother, who would probably want to know that his brother was fighting through a drug overdose right now. Lestrade's mind suddenly cleared as the ambulance came to a full stop in front of the hospital his wife worked at, he moved quickly out of the ambulance so as he wouldn't get in the way. He watched as they carried Sherlock's almost lifeless body into the hospital, a cold chill running along his back with an intensity that had him shivering.

Then Greg faintly heard the noise of his phone going off in his pocket, he fumbled with his coat and nearly dropped the damn phone on the pavement if he hadn't of been careful. The number on the phone was blocked and Greg was beside himself on whether he should answer it or not.

But Greg decided to just fuck it and answer.

"Oi, who's this then?"

_"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, wonderful to be conversing with you again even given the circumstances." _A deep voice echoed from the phone, making Greg jump a bit and feel a little ashamed at answering so rudely.

"First thing's first, I told you to call me Greg, second thing is, how did you get my number? It's not in any of the phone books for a reason."

_"Yes, well Gregory, I am calling about the recent hospitalization of my dear brother, would you like to give me the details perhaps?" _Mycroft sounded ridiculously calm, making Greg wonder if he actually cared about the mortality issue currently addressed with his brother.

_"I do care, Gregory, constantly."_ Mycroft also seemed to be in the business of reading minds.

"Well I can give you the gist, but I'd better get in there." Greg said, suddenly realizing that he'd probably have to fill out paper work as soon as he stepped inside.

_"If you would be so kind." _Mycroft sounded a tad bit annoyed at being rushed, Greg could only make the assumption that he was usually a man that was rushing others.

"Well, Sherlock was denied access to the morgue for a murder we recently got this morning, he was so angered by this that he went home and nearly died of an overdose if I hadn't of shown up." Greg said as fast as he could, running his free hand through his hair and scrunching his eyes.

"I feel like this is my fault, actually." Greg decided to take a moment of honesty with the older Holmes.

_"And why would you believe such a thing, Gregory?" _Mycroft couldn't help the concern he presented to the Detective, something in him just wanted to know the very core of Gregory Lestrade.

"Mycroft, I just feel like if I had given Sherlock that entrance into the morgue, he wouldn't be fighting through an overdose right now. Your brother needs to solve these murders to function and it's taken me over seven months to figure that out." Mycroft listened intently at Greg's words, a small shiver running through him at the sound of his name coming from the Detectives mouth.

_"Gregory, blaming yourself for my brother's selfish habits isn't going to help you at all."_ Greg's eyes widened, Mycroft sounded like he'd already given up on his brother, as if Sherlock deserved the kind of pain he was in right now.

"No wonder Sherlock is so damn recluse, his own brother doesn't even comprehend the idea of someone actually feeling remorse for him. Listen Mycroft, if your brother makes it out of this alive, I'm going to do everything in my goddamn power to get him into every case he wants. These cases, this thinking and making deductions thing he does, it's the only thing keeping his mind at bay. It's the only thing he has, so don't you sit there and tell me that he did that for selfishness. Sherlock Holmes is a great man and maybe someday, he might even be a great one." Greg was fuming by the end of his spiel, his chest heaving and his hand clenching in his pocket.

_"I'm afraid that I've upset you, Gregory, do forgive me. It's just that growing up with Sherlock has made me realize just how much of a child he is, I recognize almost everything he does as a something selfish. I appreciate you trying to help my brother, Heaven knows he needs something of substance in his life, his mind not only plagues him but also me. Ever since he's graduated from University, nothing has come into his life so he's taken the liberty of turning mine into a living Hell. I'll be at the Hospital within the hour, Gregory, I shall see you soon."_


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes was a man, well more of a very powerful government than a man, that had never submitted to any power in his life. From an early age, Mycroft had been known to completely get exactly what is he wanted, anything that ever caught his fancy was his in an instant. Grades, power, the occasional well concealed murder if he wasn't up to arranging an apology note.

His college and law school days consisted of gaining friendships that would only benefit him later on his life, of which they have indeed if not more so. The actual learning of anything in school had flown past Mycroft's head ages ago, he never needed to study to perform well in school and that still hasn't changed in his life time. He soon became a master of social interaction, well social interaction that would benefit him in anyway. Politics were, obviously, the only option for Mycroft to advance into that would accentuate his great mind and dominance he'd acquired.

He wasn't just thrust power to begin with, no, you have to work your way to the top if you want to survive in the political fishing net of the world. Ground work was where everyone started, Mycroft remembered fondly of getting the Prime Minister a coffee one day, now the Prime Minister brought him coffee. After ground work was the fun part, being an agent to the British Secret Service was a great past time of Mycroft Holmes. If he were still in the prime of his youth, he would no doubt of been out there in the world working as an undercover agent as the thrill was extraordinary to him. However, being an undercover agent had its prices as well that left a very sore older man to be had of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had been through every torture imaginable; Chinese Water torture, nearly crucified, hunger, thirst and on most occasions, Sherlock.

His body a road map of pain he'd suffered for Queen and country.

However, no one had ever broken Mycroft Holmes in any way possible that could have affected him in the slightest. No one had ever made the man feel remorse, guilt or pity, his walls were almost impenetrable by any living being on this world.

Anthea often jokingly referred to his mind as Azkaban, as he had a way of easily taking the joy out of another man's life. And if Mycroft was ever honest to himself, he couldn't hide the tenacious smirk that resided on his face whenever he thought of it.

Iceman Holmes soon became his title amongst any power in the political world, though no one would ever dare say it within the same country as him. Known for mystery, secrets, oppression and rage, Mycroft Holmes was no man to ever be tempered.

Mycroft could arrange an army within a day, choose the United States President by afternoon tea and then arrange a "natural accident" that could cripple a country by night time. The world never slept and neither did him, a working machine with cogs that never need redone.

The King at a game of chess played by the entire world.

Though as Mycroft stepped from his car and onto the Hospital's pavement, he couldn't suppress a nervous lurch that his stomach induced. His recent heated discussion with a certain Detective Inspector had left him crestfallen and vulnerable.

Two words that had never described Mycroft Holmes in his entire life so far.

Also, his mind was muddled with the thoughts of his reaction towards the angry Detective screaming in his ear. The harsh tones of a baritone voice danced about his mind, yelling obscenities of every sort imaginable. And for some odd reason, Mycroft enjoyed it, he enjoyed the sensation of being yelled at by this incredibly ordinary man that had just sprung up in his life like a weed. He'd killed men for even less than half of what Gregory had said to him, but for some reason he'd just let him speak his mind at him.

Mycroft had read intently at the Detective's background file, it wasn't unusual in the slightest, almost mundane but somehow Mycroft felt like there was more. Something had to of made Sherlock say that there was more to Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock doesn't just say that about anyone outside of the occasional murderer and psychopath.

No, there was definitely something more about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft 'Iceman' Holmes was on a mission to find out.

Mycroft stepped into the Hospital, his nose crinkling in disgust at the stench of bleach and alcohol that permeated from the room. His hand holding onto his umbrella tightened involuntarily, he wasn't accustomed to entering hospitals for any reason. Slowly but deliberately, Mycroft walked over to the front desk to be firmly assaulted by another foul stench that sent his face muscles into an almost permanent disgusted face. The secretary that sat behind the desk was a man that looked like he could use a good six or seven showers and perhaps an acid bath if he were willing. Mycroft felt his hand tighten even harder against the umbrella, he wasn't accustomed to those that didn't bathe regularly either.

The man behind the hospital desk looked up with annoyance, obviously not a people person either by the looks of it, Mycroft let out an awkward cough before speaking.

"Hello, I'm looking for the room that Sherlock Holmes is residing." Despite Mycroft's obvious disgust, he still had his dignity to present, even if his dignity needed to be presented to the garbage heaps of London. The man however, didn't say anything and kept staring with annoyance, which threw Mycroft for a loop and made him instantly regret being so cordial.

"Oi, you won't get any information from him, mate." Mycroft, startled, turned around sharply to face the voice only to be greeted with a blonde nurse carrying two coffees in each hand. Her features were pleasant, brown eyes, small nose, a dimple on one cheek and a nice mouth. However her tired expression aged her features slightly, a good night's rest could fix that if she could sleep. Mycroft stared intently at her, he wasn't certain how to go about this mess of a situation.

"And why is that, exactly?"

"That's Old Mr. Hathaway, has severe Alzheimer's and thinks he works here, mute though and damn near deaf as well."

"Well if Mr. Hathaway is unable to point me in the direction of Sherlock Holmes's room, perhaps you could assist me, Miss-?" Mycroft firmly tucked his annoyance away, though some of the words were almost drowning in anger under his breath.

"Mrs. Lestrade, but you can call me Minnie, I'm headed up there right now so you can follow me." Minnie gave Mycroft an apologetic smile, seeming to understand the situation at hand and trying to give her condolences to his brother. Mycroft simply pursed his lips, his thoughts drifting away from the smelly, Alzheimer man behind the desk to the Detective's wife. He didn't know when, but soon enough he found himself following the woman through hallways and elevators, the wafting sent of alcohol and coffee bringing about a headache Mycroft didn't need right this second.

"Your brother is doing very well, Mr. Holmes, he's lucky Greg was around to save his arse again. That man has been driving my husband up a wall, but I think Greg enjoys it sometimes, you know? Kind of endears your brother as if he were his own, Greg's always had a thing for lost souls, takes 'em in like strays." Minnie had decided that the silence needed to end, obviously a woman that couldn't stand anyone not being sociable for very long.

"Had to say though, you got Greg pretty riled up earlier, he was going off like he'd just been publically humiliated by you." Minnie looked back at Mycroft, obviously perplexed by the stoic expression his face decidedly made. He wasn't accustomed to random women talking to him either, Mycroft wasn't in his greatest mood at the moment and her comments were only adding to the throbbing his head made. However, Minnie's comment about the Detective's outrage at Mycroft's unfortunate uncaring earlier had struck a chord within him.

"I assure you Madame that I have every intention of apologizing to the Detective of my recent uncaring endeavor towards the subject of my brother."

"Greg said you were one of those pompous, political types, I think I know exactly what he means now." Minnie joked, she was clearly trying to lighten the mood that was beginning to settle within the hallways.

"I'm afraid, that's only the half of it, Mrs. Lestrade." Before Minnie could say anything else, they had finally reached their destination within the ICU of the hospital. Minnie opened the door, maneuvering her hands around to try to balance the coffee cups and turn the door knob. Inside, the room was as any hospital scene would have depicted. Mycroft's eyes however went straight to his brother lying in the bed, an endotracheal tube inserted into his mouth, a heart monitor beating beside him and an IV in his arm. It wasn't his presence in the hospital bed that made Mycroft a bit uneasy, but it was the color of his skin and how somehow he didn't look anything like the tenacious brother he saw not so long ago.

There was a childish game that Mycroft and Sherlock had been playing since Sherlock had been cognizant enough to understand him. A game in which, Sherlock and Mycroft cared very deeply about one another as most brothers do but showing their affection consisted of rude remarks and glares. Mycroft would never admit to it, but he did in fact love his brother, because Sherlock was the only one to ever actually understand Mycroft to his core as well as Mycroft understanding all of the thoughts that constantly raged through Sherlock's brain. Mycroft felt his stoic expression fade into a faintly pained one, he never wanted any of this for Sherlock.

"Here to grace us with your present, then Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade's voice sprang up, heavily laced with suppressed anger that would no doubt unleash upon Mycroft. Mycroft slowly closed his eyes and scrunched his lids down while his hand massaged one temple lightly.

"Has he been conscious at all?" Mycroft decided to just keep this conversation about Sherlock, he needed to know what exactly was going on now.

"He was up for about five minutes before the medication kicked in, he's been asleep since then and won't wake up until the morning, his body needs to flush out whatever kind of drug cocktail he took." Minnie spoke up, she was standing beside Greg's chair, and coffee still in her hand as Greg was too busy staring daggers into Mycroft.

"Minnie, love, why don't you leave us for a minute, yeah? I'm sorry to push you from the room but Mr. Holmes and I need to have a talk."Lestrade pulled his eyes away from Mycroft's presence to stare at his wife, he took the coffee from her hand as she nodded and placed a kiss on his cheek. Mycroft felt a pull in his stomach at the simple action, but made no physical indication that he'd noticed. Minnie walked away from the Detective and opened the door, but she stopped dead in her tracks and looked back at Greg.

"No rough housing in my hospital, boys, I mean it." With that, Minnie Lestrade went about her nursing duties once more.

"She's a pistol, Detective."

"Don't I know it?" Lestrade's anger seemed to wash away at Mycroft's mention of his wife, seeming to understand that Mycroft didn't come here for a fight.

"I want to apologize, Detective, for my attitude earlier." Mycroft found another seat and placed it on the other side of Sherlock's bed, facing Greg, he sat down and placed his umbrella against the nightstand.

"Yeah, you really should, your brother almost died of an overdose and you're trying to tell me he's some selfish child that's just warranting attention. Of course I know he's a damn child! But that's what children do, Mr. Holmes, they act out because they want attention, they want help. Your brother might be the most intelligent man to have ever visited the Yard, but his smarts come at a price, his sanity is a tightening thread. At first I couldn't understand him and his less than orthodox ways but now, now I understand why he wants to solve these murders and crimes. They're the only thing that can keep his mind fully entertained, otherwise it's just a constant streaming line of thoughts invading his brain. No wonder the crazy git goes straight back to the drugs, they numb his brain for a while and give him some damn peace." Lestrade looked over at Sherlock as he spoke, his hand reached out and lightly touched the pale man's hand as if he were going to break at any moment.

Mycroft soaked in every last bit of Gregory's speech, each word somehow cutting into him like a knife against his stone cold heart. The Detective was right, in every sense, Mycroft had always been so clever and smart but somehow he couldn't see the plainest thing dancing around his nose in front of him. Mycroft slowly reached his hand out towards his brother's leg, as if to make sure he were still really there beside him.

"Your knowledge behind my brother's actions rather exceeds my own, Detective, but I will say that everything you've said is completely true."

"Of course it is, you pompous bastard, this is what my job is completely about. If I couldn't do this much, I wouldn't be the bloody Detective Inspector." Greg finally made the leap in lightening the conversation, finally receiving the satisfaction of getting Mycroft Holmes to actually feel remorse for his actions.

"Well as a man who is accustomed to these types of situations, what do you suppose we should do about this?"

"Well we obviously can't let him live alone again, he needs to be somewhere where he can be supervised enough." Lestrade said, sipping slowly at his coffee and grimacing at its awful taste with disdain.

"Then he'll live at my apartment, I can keep him more than thoroughly supervised without any problems arising." Mycroft replied shortly, staring down at the hand he still had on Sherlock's leg, almost as if it were stuck in its place.

"Mr. Holmes I-"

"I told you to call me Mycroft, Detective."

"And I told you to call me Greg, now **_Mycroft_**, I understand your wanting to keep close tabs on Sherlock but shutting him away inside your apartment is a sure fire way to coaxing him into another episode like this. I've thought this over though I haven't talked it over with Minnie yet, but I'm thinking of having Sherlock move into our guest bedroom in our house. I've decided already that Sherlock needs to be in these cases, helping as much as he possibly can, he might be utterly unorthodox with his methods but I need him there as much as he needs me to let him be there. If he stays with me, he'll more than likely always be home when I'm home or when Minnie's home, he'll have free reign to come and go as he pleases but only if he'll tell us first. I could probably get Minnie to do a drug test on him every now and then too. I think it's in his best interest if he moves in with Minnie and me, you'll have free access into our home as much as he does." Lestrade said his peace and then drank the rest of his awful hospital coffee in one go.

"You're right, **_Gregory._**" Mycroft said, his hand finally removed from Sherlock's leg and back into his lap while his other hand still rubbed at his temple.

"However, I do believe that you're missing one final detail."

"And what would that be?"

"Sherlock is a grown man, he won't be so agreeable as to let you and I make these decisions for him." Mycroft did have a point, Sherlock was one Hell of a pistol when it came to decision making and whether or not he was involved.

"Well for a grown man, he's making some pretty damn awful decisions lately, I think that he's just going to have to suck it up and accept our help because I'm not taking No for an answer."


End file.
